


Stay (a little longer)

by lacemonster



Series: Stay [2]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Age Difference, Age Swap, Canon-Typical Violence, Established Relationship, Jealousy, M/M, Underage Kissing, Underage Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-12
Updated: 2017-11-26
Packaged: 2018-11-13 08:21:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11180805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lacemonster/pseuds/lacemonster
Summary: Ficlets/extras from my fanfic Stay, an age swap AU where Damian is Batman and Dick is his Robin. Tags and content will vary per chapter.





	1. Next Year

**Author's Note:**

> I feel weird for essentially... writing fanfiction to my own fanfiction, haha, but I really wanted to explore more of the universe I made in "Stay" without making a complete sequel or a whole new story. This isn't a traditional sequel in the sense that it doesn't affect "Stay" in any way--but you will still probably need to read "Stay" in order to fully understand these fics.
> 
> I have three ficlets/extras that I'm writing in this series. Beyond that, I'll keep this open for more, but I can't promise updates. I prefer to make new, complete stories, rather than lingering on things I've already written. So these extras will only come when I'm inspired and I have time between fics. As such, I'm sorry that I can't promise updates for anyone.
> 
> The tags/content matter will change per 'chapter'. Some are a little sad, some are a little smutty, some are a little humorous. Some are set in a specific timeline and some are vague. I'll try to put content warnings and explanations in the chapter summaries and update the tags as I go, but please keep in mind that the rating will change per chapter.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> content warnings: underage relationship, underage kissing
> 
> It's Dick's birthday. It's been a rainy day and Dick is afraid of growing older. Damian thinks getting older isn't necessarily a bad thing.

Damian awoke to the sound of thunder.

He sat up, his bedroom as dark as the time he laid in it. Despite being midday, the gray, booming clouds kept his room dim.

He ignored the crick in his back, not even pausing long enough to stretch. He immediately moved his way to the window, pulling open the curtain. Through the fog on his window, he could see the lights of a car parked in the driveway. A small shadow with an umbrella made its way through the rain, rushing for the door.

Damian’s gaze lowered.

“Shit,” he muttered. 

 

Dick stood in the middle of the bathroom, heavy dark bangs in his face, water dripping all over the tiles. His skin was a touch paler than its usual sunkissed color and his tiny arms were wrapped around his naked chest as he shivered. Normally this was a job best left for Alfred but given he was also soaking wet, Damian insisted on taking the butler’s place so he could tend to himself.

“I’m assuming your zoo trip did not go well,” Damian said flatly, finally returning with a towel. Dick’s shaky hands took the towel and he muttered his thanks.

“We didn’t even make it to the penguins,” he said, defeated, wiping his face with the towel. Which his hair then proceeded to drip over. Damian rolled his eyes and snatched the towel back, throwing it over Dick’s hair and drying it. Dick just stood there, shoulders slumped and arms at his side in defeat as Damian ruffled up his hair.

“ _Tt_. I told you it was a bad idea,” Damian said.

“It was worth a try,” Dick grumbled. For once, Damian relented. He supposed today wasn’t the day to play the _I was right, you were wrong_ card. Damian released the towel which Dick pulled to his shoulders and wrapped himself in. He huffed, blowing the fluffy bangs away from his eyes. “Why does my birthday have to be in spring? Why can’t it be like… in winter.”

At that, Damian quirked an eyebrow. “But then there’d be snow.”

“Yeah but at least penguins love snow.”

“You would get snowed on…”

“Better than rain.”

Damian just stared at Dick flatly, recalling rainless deserts from his childhood. “Be thankful you live in a temperate zone.”

“Damian.”

“Hm?”

“When’s your birthday?”

“April 31st.”

“Really?” Dick said, eyes widening. “But that’s so soon.”

“ _Tt_. Think again, dolt. There’s only thirty days in April. You’re getting older but you’re certainly not getting wiser,” Damian said, flicking Dick’s forehead. Dick scowled, rubbing his forehead, glare focused on Damian the whole time.

“Whatever,” Dick said, face turning red. He went back to dry himself off. As he did so, Damian noticed something.

“What’s that?” Damian said, nodding toward Dick’s side. Dick had to stop and look down. A thick line raced across his ribs to his waist.

“Oh,” Dick said, seeming to remember. “It’s a cut from that run-in with the knife guy, remember? It was like… a week ago?”

“It still hasn’t healed?”

“It’s healing,” Dick said, running a finger down the path of the scar. “It’s just going to leave a mark.”

Damian didn't say anything.

“Do you think the rain will be done by patrol?” Dick asked.

“Are you sure you want to go on patrol?”

Dick grinned unexpectedly. “Weren’t you the one arguing with Alfred, saying that birthdays weren’t an excuse?”

He did. A strange feeling washed over him. Something reminiscent to his moods after failed missions with his father, back when he was a child. A sense of shame over a mistake that he couldn’t go back in time and change.

“I suppose I did,” he said shortly, with no sense of emotion. Perhaps too bluntly because Dick clearly caught onto it, eyeing Damian carefully. He’s sharper now, Damian supposed. Dick had spent the shortest amount of time with Damian out of anyone in the manor and yet he always seemed to read Damian’s moods when no one else could. He could do the same to Alfred and Bruce, for that matter. But the boy just shrugged, wrapping the towel a little closer to himself.

“I like going on patrol. And this way, we can hang out on my birthday.”

Damian didn't want to skip patrol, despite many arguments with Alfred about the importance of the date. Now Damian felt more like he couldn't afford to skip patrol, even if he wanted to. They were on the brink of taking out a drug ring but their past few stakeouts had been unsuccessful.

“Fine,” Damian said bluntly. “Your choice.” 

 

“It's cold,” Dick whined.

“You could have stayed home,” Damian said, annoyed. The hem of his coat was tugged and maneuvered. Damian looked down sharply. A growl to his voice, he said, “What are you doing?”

“It’s dryer under here,” Dick responded, voice muffled. Dick was kneeling, the flaps of Damian’s coat over his head. Damian could feel Dick’s head leaning against his knee, the damp fabric growing even more saturated. Damian had to bite back his curses, resorting to grimacing.

The rain was lighter now. But puddles riddled all the rooftops and alleyways and the winds felt particularly harsh. Damian, just barely, caught Dick’s murmuring.

“My birthday’s over.”

Damian looked up. From their view on the rooftop, he could see the clocktower. Past midnight.

“At some point, I won't be able to do this anymore,” Dick continued, sounding more than a touch disappointed.

“I never gave you permission to do it _now_ ,” Damian said, but while he contemplated yanking his coat back, he didn't.

“But it’ll be different. I won't be little anymore,” Dick said.

“Isn't that a good thing? You can't fight well at this size,” Damian said.

It was true. But Damian’s mind wandered back to the new scar Dick had acquired. Lately, more and more marks decorated the boy’s body. Being marked was nothing to be proud of—it just meant that an enemy managed to get the upper-hand—but considering how clean Dick’s skin used to be, it was a sign that he was becoming more of a fighter. His progress should have merited a little bit of pride. It was exactly everything they were working towards—to make Dick stronger, better.

But lately, it just drove Damian crazy.

“Can I still be your sidekick when I'm older?” Dick asked.

“Is that what this is about?”

“I mean, when you got older… you left the manor… but I don't want the cowl, I want _you_ to have it. So since I don't want it, that means I don't have to leave, right?”

“My reasons for leaving weren't as simple as that. I needed my own identity. You'll feel the same, when you're older. That's how it goes.”

And maybe they'd have the same arguments Damian and Bruce had. And maybe Dick would want more than Damian could give. And maybe Damian would drive him away too.

“No I won't. As long as you want me as your partner—”

“Let's not think that far into the future. Let's just focus on making it through the week.”

Dick’s sudden silence unnerved Damian. A normal boy should want to grow older—it's all Damian ever thought about at his age. But Dick seemed to detest the thought.

Dick was small enough to hide under Damian’s coat. Damian supposed that at one point in time, he must have been that tiny too.

One day, when Dick was older, he wouldn't be able to do that anymore.

Assuming he lived that long.

And maybe his body would become bruised and scarred and battered like Damian’s too.

It was his birthday and he had went on patrol anyways. Because he truly didn't want to get older—he wanted to stay Damian’s sidekick forever. He wanted to be his partner.

Damian would never say it. But he wanted that too.

“We should head home. Nothing's happening anyways,” Damian said, and Dick finally crawled out. He looked up at Damian, raindrops on his face, with a sense of unease. His face was pink, his eyes almost coy, and he bit his bottom lip a little before speaking up.

“Um, since it's a special occasion and all…”

“Spit it out,” Damian said impatiently. Though he already had a feeling what Dick wanted.

Dick, face now red, blurted it out, his words hastily strung together: “Can I get birthday kiss?”

“Fine,” Damian said simply. Dick’s eyes widened in surprise but he didn't hesitate. He grabbed Damian by the folds of his jacket, tugging him down and standing on his tippy toes so their lips could meet.

Before they did, Damian placed two fingers over Dick’s lips, stopping him.

“Remember? It's not your birthday anymore.”

Dick’s shoulders slumped, eyes glaring at him, mouth still covered. It was hard for Damian to not laugh at him.

“You just promised!” Dick protested.

“I did.” Damian looked him in the eye, Dick staring back ferociously. Damian, quietly, added, “For next year. When you're older.”

Dick considered these words, his expression softening. He could never stay mad for long.

“You better not forget,” Dick said.

They headed home together. As they crossed the rooftops, Damian could feel the slight aches in his body. The overworked muscles and stinging bruises.

Damian knew that there might not be another year. That any given moment, any dire situation, might force him to break his promise. That part of having the cowl meant that breaking promises was a new part of his responsibilities.

But it didn't hurt to have something to look forward to.


	2. All Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> content warnings: underage relationship, jealousy
> 
> At Alfred's insistence, the batfamily goes to an amusement park. Damian is more than a little annoyed when Dick's attention is focused on Bruce.

“Did you get those forensic reports from the GCPD?”

“Not yet. At this rate, I should have done it myself. The GCPD’s incompetence knows no bounds. Did you trace the source of those bullet shells?”

“My usual sources are coming up negative. I’ll have to do some more research. I'm sure I'll have it before patrol tonight.”

As Bruce and Damian went back and forth over evidence, Pennyworth came down the steps with a tray in hand. Dick, who had been leaning against the dinosaur, idly playing with a batarang with a bored expression, immediately sprang up and joined the butler by his side.

“I've brought some iced tea.”

And cookies, one of which Dick already snatched.

“Thank you, Alfred,” Bruce said offhandedly, gaze still focused on the computer. Alfred looked at him a moment longer.

“Are you still working on the sniper case?” Alfred asked.

“Mhm,” Damian muttered, flipping through a page in the file.

Alfred sighed heavily.

“I think I've had about enough,” Alfred announced, volume loud and clear. Damian and Bruce finally looked away from their projects. Dick simply looked up at Alfred, a cookie in his mouth. “Look at yourselves. Its barely been a few hours since patrol and you're all holed up in the batcave, glued to your computers and casework. It's been like this all summer.”

With all eyes on him, Alfred adjusted the lapels on his coat, a determined look in his eyes.

“Well, I say enough is enough. It's a beautiful day. I say we take a trip.”

Bruce and Damian’s faces fell. “What?”

Alfred pointed a white gloved finger in the air. “We're going to the amusement park!”

Dick gasped, the cookie falling out of his mouth.

 

“Father, you need to put a stop to this madness. This is a _terrible_ idea.”

“ _Hh_.”

“That sniper killed two people. They were criminals, sure, but the fact of the matter still stands. He or she needs to be caught.”

Bruce opened the trunk of the car. “What do you want me to say, Damian? The case has brought up nothing but dead ends. Maybe we could use a day to recharge. We'll take a few hours to step away and then we’ll get back to it.”

“I'm not going to be frolicking around on some spinning tea cups while there's a killer on the loose!” Damian sputtered.

Bruce rubbed his forehead and sighed. He glanced around, saw that Alfred and Dick were sorting out the cooler of snacks, and pulled Damian to the other side of the car where they wouldn't be seen. Damian watched curiously as Bruce held up his watch, pressing a few buttons. Damian blinked, the clock face transforming into an interface that was identical to the bat computer display.

Damian would never admit it—but his father really was a genius.

“Happy?” Bruce said flatly.

“Never. But I suppose this is satisfactory.” Damian crossed his arms. “I still don't see why you're allowing this to go on.”

Bruce didn't say anything. Instead he turned his head back to the doorway. Damian followed his gaze, watching as Alfred stuck a cap on Dick’s head, pulling the brim so far that it covered his eyes. Dick laughed in response.

“It's not always about us,” Bruce said, albeit somewhat reluctantly.

Damian sighed a little.

 

“Damian, Damian.”

Damian felt a spark of embarrassment when tiny hands suddenly grabbed ahold of his, dragging him along. He could feel eyes in the crowd, following him as this boy held his hands and tried to lead him through the park.

“What are you doing?” he said, pulling back his hands. His eyes shifted around to make sure no one was staring anymore.

“Ride this one with me,” Dick said, pointing at some rollercoaster that just rose and dropped over and over.

Damian stared blankly at it. He didn't understand the excitement. It felt no more thrilling than grappling a rooftop. It just seemed like an unnecessary way to get sick, if anything. “I'm fine.”

“I'll go with you,” Bruce spoke up. He was decked out in sunglasses and a hat to hide his celebrity identity, and even though it was summer, he wore long jeans to conceal his metal leg. Dick excitedly began to pull on his arm instead.

As they got closer to the line, Bruce took his arm back. Damian nearly rolled his eyes, vaguely amused that he wasn't the only one sick of Dick’s overexcitement.

But then Bruce wrapped his arm around Dick’s shoulders instead, pulling him into his hip, half hugging him as they waited in line.

Damian’s face immediately burned, his jaw clenching.

“Oh, this reminds me. I ought to take pictures,” Alfred said, raising his camera, Bruce and Dick in line with the frame. “Perhaps I could have them printed and we could hang them in the manor.”

Later, while Alfred and Damian were on the bench waiting for Bruce and Dick to finish their ride, excited screams behind them, Damian went through the camera and deleted the photo.

 

“Bruce, Bruce.”

“Dick, slow down.”

“Ride this one with me!” Dick said, laughing, dragging Bruce to another part of the park.

Damian’s eyes narrowed as he watched them, stumbling and giggling like a couple of idiots, but then Dick suddenly stopped and looked at Damian.

Damian froze. Dick had barely acknowledged Damian since his rejection. He'd been clinging to Damian’s father all day instead.

“Damian, can you hold this?” Dick said, holding up the giant rabbit that he won from some game.

Damian deadpanned.

“Fine,” he said tightly, snatching the stupid floppy eared blue thing. Dick and Bruce ran off to some rollercoaster. “Alfred.”

“Yes, Master Damian?” Alfred said after taking a sip from his souvenir cup.

“We're all going to ride on the next one,” Damian said determinedly.

At that, Alfred looked puzzled. “I don't believe there was anything stopping us from riding on the previous ones.”

 

They all stood in line for a massive rollercoaster. As Dick and Alfred were talking, Damian leaned in and whispered to his father, “Have you had any updates?”

Bruce glanced at his watch, a strangely thoughtful look on his face. Damian stared in wonder when the man slid the watch around his wrist, so the clockface was facing down.

“Forget it. Let's just have fun today. We'll sort it out when we get back,” Bruce said.

Bruce smiled gently, the first time Damian had seen him smile in a long time.

Damian felt an instinctive tightening in his tendon, the same reaction he usually had before he punched a person in the face.

When they got to the front of the line and took their spots on the ride, Damian sat first. He watched Dick out of the corner of his eye, following him as he approached, his breath stilling and chest tightening as Dick got closer.

But then Dick took the cart in front of Damian, pulling Bruce in with him. Damian glared into the back of Bruce’s head the entire time.

 

A few rides later and no success. Alfred was starting to get nauseous so they decided to take a break. Dick went to go get cotton candy and Damian followed him, eventually dragging him aside once Bruce and Alfred were out of vision.

“Damian?” Dick asked, startled, when Damian suddenly pulled him behind a sign.

“Don't you think you should lay off?” Damian immediately said, his voice a tad darker than he anticipated. Dick looked almost worried for a second, the sad look enhanced by the big shiny eyed elephant in his arms—it turns out that Dick had a lot of practice with carnival games—and Damian almost felt guilty.

“What do you mean?” Dick asked innocently, his arms tightening around the elephant.

“You've been clinging to my father all day. You keep pulling on him and touching him and talking to him. Every single ride you've been on, you've sat next to him,” Damian spat back, no longer able to contain his emotions.

There was sudden clarity in the boy’s eyes, as if he finally realized something.

“I'm sorry,” he said, sounding genuine. “I didn't think you'd be upset—”

“No—”Damian said at once, the word _upset_ stabbing at his pride. Did he really seem so petty? Yet when he tried to come up with an excuse, his words faltered. He shut his mouth, his shoulders slumping in resignation.

He was jealous, if he was being honest, and he didn't enjoy the fact that it was noticeable.

But then Dick continued, his eyes turning sympathetic, “You can sit by Bruce if you want to. I don't mind.”

Damian blinked. “What?”

“You can sit with Bruce on the rides from now on. I didn’t mean to take your dad away from you,” Dick said.

Damian finally realized what Dick was implying. Did Dick really think that Damian was jealous of...

“Wait, that's not what I—”Damian started, but Dick just looked up at Damian questioningly. Damian stopped himself, feeling embarrassed by the misunderstanding. He realized quickly that he'd rather make Dick feel guilty over hogging Bruce than knowing the actual truth—that Damian was, in fact, jealous of Bruce stealing Dick’s attention.

“I'm not mad at you,” Damian settled on saying instead, and Dick did seem a bit relieved.

“Good. Let's all have a fun time,” Dick said. The elephant’s ears and trunk bounced as he continued his trek to the cotton candy stand.

 

“I'm going to sit by Alfred,” Dick announced at the next ride. Alfred still looked a bit nauseous but when Dick stopped and looked at him, he just nodded once.

“Very well, Master Dick,” Alfred said in a weary voice, and he allowed himself to be dragged this time. Dick glanced back, winking at Damian.

Damian had never felt so foolish in his entire life.

Damian and Bruce approached the ride.

They both stared, eyes faded, at the tiny cart.

Damian and Bruce took their seats, their shoulders bumping into each other. Both shifted in place uncomfortably, the forced contact making Damian’s skin crawl. He hadn't had this problem on any of the other rides—Alfred was much too small. He imagined Bruce hadn't faced this problem with Dick either.

They sat in stony silence through the entire ride, loop de loops and all.

 

The park was beginning to die down, crowds of people heading toward the exit. Bruce sat with a sick Alfred, sharing the bench with a rabbit, an elephant and a duck.

Damian felt a small tug on the back of his shirt. He glanced down at Dick.

“Hey,” he said, looking up at him. “Can we ride together?”

Damian looked at him. Dick responded with a smile and Damian could catch a faint hint of pink on his cheeks in the dim lighting.

“It’d be nice to do one together before we leave.”

“Fine,” Damian said after a moment.

They headed towards the nearest ride, a ferris wheel. There was no line. By the time they made it through the maze of fencing, a ride operator held out his arms.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “The park is closed. We're shutting down all the rides.”

“What?” Damian said. He felt annoyed that this… this _teenager_ was suddenly in his way. “It's just two more people. What difference does it make?”

The kid looked at the tall, massive, scarred man uncomfortably. “Look, I'm just doing my job.”

“It’s okay,” Dick piped up. Damian looked at him. Dick just shrugged and smiled. “We can just ride together next summer.”

Next summer.

Next summer.

Next summer.

Damian pinched the bridge of his nose.

“...are you okay?”

 


	3. Give It All

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: Damian's kind of an asshole; some referenced child abuse from Damian's time in the League of Assassins, but nothing atypical from canon
> 
> Dick discovers one of Damian's paintings in the manor and goes on a quest to uncover all of Damian's artwork. Dick's POV.
> 
> Note:
> 
> Murasaki did some fanart for this story! Feel free to [check it out](http://picmurasaki.tumblr.com/post/168170265339)! Thank you Murasaki!

Dick carefully walked down the hallway. In his hands was a tray, where a bowl of soup teetered uneasily. Dick kept the tray as balanced as possible, determined not to spill a drop.

Balancing the tray under one hand, Dick skipped knocking and went straight for the doorknob.

“Alfred?” Dick said tentatively, pushing the door open. From the bed, a red-nosed Alfred looked up. Seeing his visitor, Alfred set his book down on his lap.

“Yes, Master Dick?” he asked, nose stuffy.

“Bruce made you some soup,” Dick said. He walked barefoot across the carpet, carefully plotting out each step, and nearly sighed in relief when he finally set the tray down on the bedside table. Success.

“Thank you, Master Dick. Though you should really keep your distance—this could be contagious.”

“I already got sick. I should be okay,” Dick said. “Do you need anything else?”

“No thank you,” Alfred said. He set the book down on the mattress, reaching over and grabbing the tray.

It wasn't until this moment that Dick realized he had never been in Alfred’s room. Without thinking of asking for permission, he immediately wandered around. Ironically, Alfred’s bookshelf seemed to be the only disorganized thing in the otherwise immaculately neat house. The mess naturally caught Dick’s eye—which then led his gaze upward, to the painting that hung on the wall above it.

Feeling drawn, Dick slowly moved towards it, hypnotized in its details.

“This looks like your garden, Alfred,” Dick said, recognizing the fountain off to the side. But there were still quite a few differences, such as the arrangement of the hedges.

“That's because it is. It was a bit different seven—eight?—years ago,” Alfred said. Dick’s eyes were big, entranced by all the details and colors. Dick was amazed by how realistic it was—almost like a photograph. He only knew it was a painting because of the dimensional texture of the oil paint. There was something to Alfred’s voice as he said, “You quite like the painting, don't you?”

Dick finally tore away, giving Alfred a nod. At that, Alfred smiled gently.

“Take a look at the signature in the corner. It may surprise you.”

Dick turned his head back toward the painting, practically looking with his entire face as he tried to spot the name, the tip of his nose threatening to bump into the canvas. In the dark shadows of the lower corner, Dick could see a scrawl of red paint.

He couldn't read the name because it wasn't in English. But he recognized the script well enough to make a guess.

He looked back at Alfred, surprised. Alfred nodded in confirmation.

“He was really quite talented, you know.” Alfred nodded towards the shelf. “That brown case on the bottom contains a few of his sketchbooks. As for the rest of Master Damian’s artwork, I'm afraid Master Bruce hid it all in storage, shortly after he left the manor.”

Dick immediately got on his knees, dragging out the heavy trunk sitting on the bottom shelf. He popped off the top. Inside were quite a few miscellaneous items, most of which were letters. Dick tilted his head, catching an envelope addressed to a _Julia_ , but he paid no further attention to it. He grabbed the few books sitting there instead.

He sat on the carpet, taking a handheld one with a leather cover, and opened it up. The drawings had no signatures but they did have dates. Dick paused, brow furrowing as he added up the years.

“He was my age when he did these?” Dick said, holding it up with the pages open for Alfred to see. Alfred nodded.

“Yes, he was quite prodigious.”

Dick flipped the sketchbook back around, staring at the detailed drawings. Dick could barely imagine drawing anything like that, especially at his current age, and he was only looking at a sketch.

Dick smiled a little, recognizing the cat that appeared frequently on the pages, his heart warming at the still kitten-like features. He kept flipping through, seeing lots of appearances from a dog that he had never met and different angles of the Wayne estates. The pages varied from normal things such as unfinished drafts and gestures and objects around the house, to more experimental things like mixed media or drawings of crumpled up pieces of paper or even studies of feet.

Dick tilted his head, staring closely at a self-portrait. Damian looked unhappy even in his own drawings as a child—his serious, ebony-pencilled eyes staring back at Dick. There weren't any photographs of Damian in the house, with the exception of a portrait of him, Bruce, and Alfred on the fireplace mantle. A small, 4 x 6 photo that could stay there as a reminder of Damian’s existence when Bruce needed it, as opposed to anything in a large frame that could haunt Bruce on a bad day. Dick looked at it for a moment longer, feeling amused by the size of child-Damian’s ears.

“Since Damian is back, maybe we can take them out of storage,” Dick said. He looked to Pennyworth for approval but the butler seemed uncomfortable.

Alfred quickly put on a smile—forced, by Dick’s guess—and said, “Perhaps. But that might require some permission from the artist.”

Dick didn't see the issue with that.

 

Dick caught Damian lounging on the parlor sofa, Alfred the cat snoozing on his chest. It looked comfy so Dick climbed on too. His elbow accidentally made contact with Damian’s sore ribs, causing him to jolt up. Alfred yowled and hopped off, running for it.

“Sorry,” Dick said, rolling over Damian’s body to occupy the space between him and cushions. Damian relaxed back into the sofa, though Dick suspected he was in a bad mood like usual, judging by the deep frown on his face.

“What do you want?” he demanded.

Dick pouted a little. Damian always asked that anytime Dick just wanted to start a conversation.

“I wanted to ask if we could look for your drawings together,” Dick said, resting his head on Damian’s chest. There was a short pause.

“How…” Damian started, voice sounding exasperated, but then he sighed. “Was it Pennyworth who told you?”

Dick ignored the question, pulling out the sketchbook he had carried with him. He lifted it up so he and Damian could both see.

“Can you teach me to draw like this?”

Damian took the book from him. Dick scooted around, trying to gauge Damian’s reaction by watching him. Damian, brow furrowed, flipped through the pages.

Damian suddenly made a strange face, like he had eaten something sour.

“Embarrassing,” he muttered, closing the sketchbook and tossing it back to Dick.

“What? How?” Dick said defensively, as if he were the artist instead of Damian.

“It looks like I tried drawing with my eyes closed.”

“I like it,” Dick said insistently. He sat up, practically cradling the journal like a baby in his arms. A defenseless baby that Damian insisted on bullying.

Damian’s eyes rolled, only making Dick that much more heated.

“Like what you will,” Damian said. “I'm not telling you what to do. But I'm not going through that shoddy storage room again. At least, not until I need something.”

Dick felt a twist of disappointment in his chest.

“Could you still teach me?”

“Teach you what?”

“How to draw like this.”

An irritated sigh. “I don't have time for that. You'd never catch up anyways, you're too old to start now. I was trained since I was three.”

Annoyed, Dick rolled back over Damian, ignoring his grunt.

“Richard,” Damian called after him but Dick just stormed off.

 

Dick managed to catch the cat while he was asleep. Despite the years that had passed, Dick thought that when Alfred was asleep, he still looked the same as when he was a kitten in Damian’s sketches. Dick chewed on his bottom lip as his pencil scratched against the paper.

When he was satisfied with the end results, he grabbed his things and hunted Damian down.

He found Bruce instead, sitting on a stool in the kitchen, a cup of tea in front of him.

“Bruce, do you know where Damian is?” Dick asked.

Bruce cleared his throat. “Outside.”

“Where?”

Bruce glanced at him with weary eyes before taking a long sip of his tea. Voice hoarse, he murmured, “Not sure.”

Dick pulled on his shoes and went running outside. He found Damian sitting near the pool, his feet wading in the water.

“What are you doing out here?” Dick said, crouching on the tiles next to him.

“Trying to get out of the germ-infested house. And trying to relax.”

“Neat. Hey, what do you think of this?” Dick said, poking Damian’s chest with his drawing. Damian gave Dick one annoyed look before snatching the paper.

He took one glance at it before handing it back.

“Your shapes are wrong.”

“My shapes?” Dick said, tilting his head. The circles looked circular and the triangles looked triangular.

“You have to think about how the shapes work in proportion to one another.”

When Dick blinked dumbly at Damian, Damian clenched his jaw. Huffing a little, he yanked Dick’s pencil out of his hand. He quickly scrawled some lines on the page, making Alfred’s back taller and his hind leg pudgier.

“Like that. Fill in those spaces.”

“Oh, okay,” Dick said, tapping his pencil on his knee. He got up and ran back into the manor, past Bruce who was resting his head on the counter, past the mess in the living room that had accumulated in Alfred’s absence, to where he last saw the cat laying.

Dick sighed heavily when he saw that Alfred was awake and licking himself. He looked around, grabbing the pad of paper he kept on the table, and ripped off a new sheet.

 

“Damian,” Dick said.

“I’m _meditating_ ,” Damian growled out of the corner of his mouth, his eyes still closed.

“I know but I just need you to look at this real quick.”

“ _I don’t care_.”

Dick’s heart sank. He fell back on his haunches. At the squeak of the training room mat, Damian’s brow twitched. Dick caught a peek of Damian’s crystal eyes. The man must have caught the saddened look on Dick’s face because his eyes suddenly opened all the way.

Damian rubbed his temples for a moment, looking stressed, before holding his hand out. Dick’s spirits raised a little. He handed over his new drawing.

“Your shadows are wrong,” Damian said almost immediately.

“What?” Dick said. His shadows were… shadowy. Damian started tapping around on different points of the page.

“Shadows give dimension to the objects. The area under his chin, that side of his face and his chest—it should all be darker. You only have white, gray, and black. Even at your skill level, you should have a range of at least white, three different grays, and black.” To demonstrate, Damian stole Dick’s pencil, where he made five differents marks on the page—the marks going from light to dark. Damian looked at Dick’s drawing a little longer, and the longer he looked, the more frustrated his expression became. “And eyes are three dimensional objects. They have lights and shadows as well. You're drawing a cat, not a votive statue.”

“What's a votive statue?”

“Darken the area beneath the eyelid and in the corners of the eyes,” Damian said, ignoring Dick’s question. “You have to compare all of the shadows in relation to one another.”

Dick couldn’t help but feel a little frustrated. As much as he wanted Damian’s advice, it seemed like nothing he did was right.

“You make art too hard,” Dick said, pouting. That appeared to have been the wrong answer, judging by the immediate sneer on Damian’s face.

“ _Tt_. You asked for my advice and I gave it to you. What, you want me to stick it up on the refrigerator? Give you a gold star?” Damian said, practically shoving the drawing and pencil back in Dick’s arms. Dick didn’t shrink at the sharpness in Damian’s tone. If anything, it made him all the more defensive.

“Art is supposed to be fun,” Dick shot back.

“Nothing is fun if you want to be the best,” Damian snapped. “Do you think Michelangelo mixed fresco everyday and stood on a sixty foot scaffold to paint the Sistine Chapel for _fun_? Do you think Beethoven got on his knees to listen to piano vibrations because it was _fun_?”

“ _Maybe_?” Dick argued.

Looking frustrated, Damian got up and stormed off. Dick’s eyes followed Damian as he passed by Bruce, who happened to be in the cave going over some blueprints.

“Is something wrong?” Bruce asked.

“Don’t talk to me, you’re contaminated,” Damian grumbled, heading for the staircase. Bruce turned toward Dick, frowning.

“It’s not my fault!” Dick said, volume raised. Bruce, his undereyes dark, just shook his head to himself and went back to his work.

 

Dick snuck into the storage room without Alfred’s permission.

He wasn’t going to wait around for Damian to be interested in going through all his old things. If he did that, then he'd have to wait forever.

It was difficult going through the boxes of stuff. There was years of history in the manor, all of it existing long before Dick was even alive. While Pennyworth seemed to do a decent job of dating everything, the storage room was still largely unorganized, and Dick had to do a lot of climbing around to get what he needed.

Not that he was opposed to climbing around.

It took awhile before Dick finally caught something—a box, pushed far back on the shelf, with Damian’s name on it. Dick went to pop it open, and then came to a pause. With surprise, he realized that the tape on the box had already been ripped off.

He opened it up and, to his delight, seemed to have hit the jackpot. Sitting on the floor next to the box, he pulled out the first canvas.

Part of it got snagged on the edge of the box. Dick looked, noticing there was a wire on the back of the frame. A wire for hanging. Out of curiosity, Dick quickly flipped through the rest of the canvases. Most of them had wires.

Dick made a face at this discovery, quickly trying to think of different empty walls throughout the manor where these paintings might have belonged—and then it occurred to him that they could have been covered up with different paintings over time.

There were parts of the manor’s history that he was just never going to know. And even if Dick tried his hardest, he'd never get the manor to look the way it did before he arrived.

Until then, Dick took the time to enjoy looking at all the old paintings. He loved them all, but there were some he loved more than others.

What became his favorite, he had almost skimmed past. He recognized Alfred's face after a double-take, but it was Bruce that took a few moments for him to register. It was one of Damian’s earlier paintings, but Damian had been extremely talented, even as a child. Rather, it was Bruce’s youth that had made him unrecognizable. Dick pulled the artwork out of the box and set it on his lap, feeling amazed. Bruce, his hair fully black instead of gray on the sides. His eyes stony instead of weary. His face younger, more handsome.

Although equally stern.

After Dick pulled out the painting, there was enough space in the box for him to notice the sketch journals on the bottom. He took those to keep and reluctantly packed the rest, knowing that the paintings would have to go back on the shelf.

Even if he cleared the walls, there wouldn't be any place to hang them.

 

One of the journals Dick had pulled had been more recent—very close to around the time that Damian left the manor, if Dick had to guess.

In this journal, there were less drawings of Alfred, and even less drawings of Bruce. The dog had become very old, and was shown sleeping or lounging around, its jowls seeming to hang even lower.

If it wasn't for the dates, Dick would have thought he was missing a few years. Based on the self-portraits, Damian’s transformation from child to man seemed jarring and sudden. It was as if his face decided, overnight, that he was an adult—his features had sharpened and hardened, and the only baby fat preserved were in the yellowed pages of older sketchbooks.

Damian’s skill had grown even greater, closer to the level of skill displayed in the painting that hung in Alfred’s room. The details in which Damian put into the simplest objects intrigued Dick—though none of them captured his attention like the painting of Bruce. In all honesty, Dick missed the presence of people and animals in Damian’s work. Even if the older drawings were rougher, Dick liked how earnest they were.

Over the course of a few days and nights, after Dick had finally finished flipping through each journal of Damian’s that he could find, a thought entered his mind:

_Is that it_?

And it wasn't until that moment of disappointment that he finally realized:

_Could there be more_?

Dick immediately sat up in his bed.

Closing up the journal and carrying it in his hand, he hurried over to Damian’s room. Not bothering to knock, he opened up the door and barged his way in. Damian was laying on the rug, reading, and almost determinedly kept his book in his hands without acknowledging Dick’s intrusion.

“Damian,” Dick said, sitting on the rug, his knee just barely touching Damian’s shoulder. “When you left the manor, did you draw at all?”

Damian said nothing, flipping a page.

“Damian,” Dick said again. Damian kept reading. Huffing a little, Dick lowered Damian’s book. “I know you can hear me.”

Damian yanked his book out of Dick’s reach and rolled onto his side, back turned. Annoyed, Dick rolled him back over.

“Come _on_.”

“Can I ever just have _one day_ of peace?” Damian snapped at him. His book-holding arm fell limply onto the ground next to him. “Just one day where you keep quiet—”

Damian suddenly stopped to cough into his hand. Afterwards, he looked at his hand, a look of near betrayal in his eyes.

“I just want to know if you have any more sketchbooks.”

Damian finally looked at Dick fully. His eyes flickered down at the journal in Dick’s hand. His brow suddenly furrowed.

“Where'd you get that?” He quickly answered his own question, adding, “You went into storage, didn't you? You shouldn't go through people’s stuff without permission.”

“Yeah,” Dick said, ignoring the lecture. He opened the journal, pulling out a loose page to hand over to Damian. Damian didn't take it. He just looked at it with a discernible expression. “I found a whole box of your stuff, including your paintings. I was kind of wondering if I could hang one in my room. But if not, maybe I could put this one on my wall. See, it's your sketch of the garden, like the painting above Alfred’s shelf—”

“Stop.”

Dick blinked, taken aback by Damian’s tone. Damian’s scowl was no different than usual—but he sounded different. He sounded cold.

“Stop what?” Dick said.

“Stop pestering me with this.”

Dick stared in stunned silence when Damian suddenly took the drawing and tore it in half.

“Why?” Dick asked, snatching the pieces of paper from Damian’s hands. He puzzled them back together—but the ugly rip was too noticeable, the frayed edges taking away the graphite.

Sudden tears sprung forth.

At that, Damian sat up.

“What? Why are you crying?” Damian said, sounding both shocked and exasperated. “It wasn't even yours.”

“So?” Dick spat back, wiping his eyes on the back of his arm. “They're your drawings. Don't you care at all?”

“...not particularly, no.”

Dick sniffed.

Damian sighed.

“You don’t understand. You _wouldn't_ understand,” Damian said quickly. His shoulders hunched. “I didn't draw because I wanted to. I did it because I was told to.”

“What do you mean?” Dick asked, voice thick and face red as he tried to keep the dam from breaking.

“I wouldn't have even learned to paint if my mother hadn't forced me to master it.”

Dick’s curiosity calmed him somewhat, the tears pausing almost as quickly as they burst. He sniffed once more and asked, a little more gently, “What do you like to do then?”

“I don't know,” Damian said shortly.

Damian suddenly got to his feet, crossing the room to the door. He placed his hand on the handle and stood there, waiting.

Clenching his jaw—and ignoring the quiver he felt as he did so—Dick tucked the journal and the ripped pages under his arms and headed toward the exit, his head bowed. He stopped at the doorway, looking up at Damian with wet, rueful eyes.

“You’re a jerk,” he said.

“And you’re nosey.”

“I hope you do get sick!” Dick said, scrambling for something. Anything.

“You were sick first,” Damian said, rolling his eyes. And he shut the door with some force.

 

After Dick finished talking with GCPD, he hurried to meet up with Batman.

Normally Damian was in charge of explaining things to the police, but almost immediately after he finished tying up the last of Penguin’s thugs, he had run off. Dick followed the tracker’s signal to find him. Damian wasn’t too far away—Dick arrived in the dark alleyway, where he could hear Damian’s haggard breathing.

Dick paused at the sound, worried, until he heard Damian’s cough. He had almost forgotten that Damian was sick. The shallow breaths had tricked him into thinking that Damian had gotten seriously hurt during his fight.

Damian was so good at fighting that he could take down entire gangs of trained criminals without breaking a sweat. It wasn’t often that his breathing was loud and panting. Dick hurried to Damian, who was leaned up against the wall.

Despite the fact that he was short of breath, Damian still was able to say, “My mother used to lace my tea every morning. I eventually became immune to twenty-seven different types of toxins.” Voice nearly a growl, he went on, “And I still managed to catch _your_ cold.”

“I have been told that I’m very persistent.”

“ _Tt_.”

Dick reached into one of the pouches of his utility belt, pulling out a tissue. Damian stopped and looked at it, almost bewildered—but then waved a dismissive hand. Dick shrugged a shoulder and pocketed it.

They didn’t run off to the roofs like they usually did. They walked down the alleyway. Damian noticeably tried to stifle the sounds of his inhales—the hitched breaths unnerved Dick, who finally stopped in place.

“We could take a break,” Dick tried.

“Night’s still early.”

“You’re sick,” Dick said. In an effort to compromise with Damian’s pride, he quickly added, “When I was sick, I couldn’t even go on patrol, I stayed at home—”

Damian snorted. “Batman doesn’t take _sick days_. And I wouldn’t even be sick, if you and everyone else hadn’t contaminated the whole place.”

Dick didn’t say anything. As usual, Damian was in one of his moods. The particularly annoying mood, too—the one where he blamed everyone for different things. Dick wasn’t too bothered. He knew that Damian didn’t mean it, not really.

Mom used to call it the ‘blame game’. Blaming others when really, _the only one you have to blame is yourself_. Dick observed early on in their partnership that Damian liked playing the ‘blame game’. The reason why Dick never minded, however, is that he figured if Damian blamed himself every time he played the ‘blame game’, he’d probably end up blaming himself too much.

“Damian,” Dick said.

“Batman,” Damian corrected. Dick looked up at him anyways.

“Do you like doing this?”

Dick expected a retort or a cold shoulder. He didn't expect Damian to fall silent.

“You know, like Batman stuff,” Dick said, trying to elaborate. “Because with the art stuff, you said you didn’t like doing it, you only did it because—”

“I understood what you meant,” Damian said. He coughed a little into his glove. “What does it matter? Would you rather be running off with Father?”

“No,” Dick said at once, and he sounded defensive, but only because he was often defensive whenever Damian or Bruce tried to pin him against the other. He stared at his feet while they walked. Quietly, he confessed, “ _I_ like doing this.”

He waited for Damian to throw the words back in his face. To tease him or maybe say something disparaging about Bruce. But Damian didn’t say anything at all.

Unable to stand the silence, Dick rambled on, “I mean, I guess it doesn’t matter too much—if you like being Batman or if you do it just because. But you don’t really seem to like anything. I mean, if I didn’t like being Robin, and I did it anyways, it’d be like—like—”Dick stumbled on his speech for a moment, trying to convey his thoughts into words. His brow furrowed in concentration, and he spat whatever came to mind, “It’s like—it’s like _what’s the point_ , you know? If you don’t like anything. It’s like, _what’s the point_?”

“Yes.”

Dick looked up at Damian questioningly. Damian caught his watchful eye, sighed a little, and then looked at Dick fully.

“I like this.”

Dick didn’t say anything in response. Damian resumed walking, taking the lead.

Turned away, his voice lower, he said it again.

“I like this.”

 

There was a soft knock on Dick’s doorway. Dick turned in his chair.

“The door’s wide open,” Dick said, frowning at Damian.

“I’m not just going to barge in,” Damian said, expression souring, but he entered as soon as Dick acknowledged him. Damian stopped near the corner of Dick’s desk and Dick watched him cautiously, wondering at the close distance between them. Damian had seemed to gotten over his sickness, and there an almost intimidating clarity to his eyes.

Damian pulled out an object from behind his back and held it in the air.

Dick blinked at it, recognizing what it was, but disbelief tampered with his excitement.

“Is that…” Dick trailed off, afraid of even suggesting it, as if speaking of the object’s nature would cause it to disappear.

“I’ll trade it to you for some information,” Damian said, waving the mysterious journal temptingly. Dick’s eyes followed it, no different than a puppy staring down a treat.

“Um, sure,” Dick said, agreeing before he even knew the terms.

Luckily, Damian didn’t ask for anything that Dick couldn’t provide.

 

Dick was eager to trust—but Damian had proved himself as a clever trickster one too many times. Suspecting a possible trap, Dick blocked the doorway before Damian could get through.

“Hey, if I show you, you have to promise you’re not going to wreck anything,” Dick said, hand on the doorknob.

Damian stared down at the boy that was barely half of his size, one eyebrow arched.

“I promise I won’t wreck anything,” he said after a moment.

Dick let out a long breath to calm his nerves. A promise was a promise, right? He opened the door to the storage room and led Damian to the shelf where he had found the old paintings. Damian slid the box off the shelf and set it on a nearby table. Taking a peek inside, Damian held up the journal, which Dick quickly took before Damian could change his mind on the exchange.

Dick opened up the journal to the middle of its pages, face lighting up when he saw a drawing of a tiny lizard.

“Hey, did you really see this lizard? Or did you make it up?” Dick asked.

“I saw it.”

“Wow,” Dick said. He flipped through the pages, looking at all the places and objects and people he had never seen before, from all the different places Damian had gone in the past few years. A sudden thought occurred to him. “Have you shown anyone this before?”

“No,” Damian said. He pulled out a canvas to observe it.

“So I’m the only one that’s seen where you’ve gone? That’s neat,” Dick said, trying to not sound too giddy. Damian glanced at him. To Dick, it seemed that Damian’s eyes were just a tad bit brighter, the corner of his mouth almost amused.

“‘Neat’,” Damian repeated, teasing. And it felt just that— _teasing_ —which made Dick smile a little.

Damian pulled out the portrait of Bruce and Alfred—and Dick had to resist blurting out that it was his favorite. He was aware that he made himself enough of a dork in the past few minutes. Still, Dick watching longingly as the portrait was set aside.

“Do you think you could ever paint me?” Dick asked, trying to sound casual, though his face burned hot at the idea.

Admittedly, it was a fantasy of his ever since he discovered the signature in the painting of the garden. A fantasy that often spiralled out of control, where his portrait would become a masterpiece that toured art museums across the world, and would be printed in big art history books. But sometimes the fantasy was simple too, where the portrait would hang on a wall next to the Bruce and Alfred painting, and maybe Damian would do a self-portrait too, and their portraits would huddle side by side on the same wall somewhere in the manor.

“These types of paintings take hours, maybe days. You’d never be able to sit still long enough.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” Dick said. He wasn’t as disappointed as he thought he’d be. He hadn’t put much thought about what the artmaking process would entail—and the idea of Damian watching him intensely for hours made him suddenly nervous, butterflies fluttering in his stomach.

Dick joined Damian’s side, trying to watch Damian for his reactions every time he looked at one of his old works. Damian pushed aside a painting, and a glimmer of _something_ in the box caught both of their eyes. Dick was the first to reach in and grab it, pulling out what he thought was a bead.

“What is it?” Dick asked, before he even turned it over in his fingers to get a look at it himself.

“Cufflink,” Damian said.

“Bruce’s?” Dick said. “What’s it doing in here?”

“Probably got lost when he took them all down,” Damian said stiffly.

Dick went quiet for a moment, remembering the tape on the box had been ripped when he found it.

“Or maybe he lost it when he was looking through here,” Dick suggested, but Damian didn’t say anything. He just kept looking at his old paintings. Dick’s eyes travelled back to the Bruce and Alfred portrait. He took it off the table without thinking. When Damian noticed the action, Dick quickly said, “We should hang it up.”

“It was taken down for a reason, Richard.”

“Yeah, because you left. But you’re back now. So we can hang it up.”

Damian’s head tilted back, and looked at the ceiling and gave a heavy sigh—a sound that made Dick bristle up in response.

“You always make things so difficult.”

“No, _you’re_ difficult,” Dick said, frown deepening. He felt a sudden anger rise up through his chest, and he found himself hugging the painting defensively. “You’re _all_ difficult. You and Bruce and Alfred—you guys get all mopey and sad and you just—you just _box away_ all the really good stuff. This stuff is all really cool—anyone with two eyes could see it—and if it was up to you guys, you’d just—just burn it all!”

Damian seemed hardly moved by Dick’s speech. “Why do you want it up so bad? It’s old and amateurish.”

“ _Not everything has to be perfect_!” Dick said, throwing his arms in the air, the corner of the canvas almost smacking with the table. There was a strange sense of calm in Damian’s eyes when he looked at Dick—not exactly the reaction Dick expected, but he was too furious to take note of it. “Isn’t it enough that you guys can speak a bunch of languages and build cool gadgets and know all these martial arts and fight bad guys? Why does everything have to be—”

Dick stopped mid-sentence when Damian suddenly put his hand on top of his head, the weight of it seeming to push downwards.

“ _Calm_ ,” Damian said, the word elongated.

Dick, flustered and angry, grumbled some bits and pieces of phrases that didn’t quite make a coherent sentence. Damian finally removed his hand.

“If you want to hang up the painting, I won’t stop you,” Damian finally said. Because that seemed to be his go-to response for everything.

Dick opened his mouth to argue but didn’t know what to say. It was everything he was supposed to want, and yet, he still felt unsatisfied. He stared straight ahead, into nothing.

“What’s the matter?” Damian said, not in a pushing way.

“I don’t want you to just give it to me. I want you to _want_ me to have it,” Dick said. For some reason, saying it out loud made Dick’s chest hurt.

Damian made a soft sound. “See? Difficult.”

Dick didn’t say anything. Didn’t even look up when Damian suddenly placed both hands on his shoulders.

“Whatever you want of mine, you can have. But I only ever _want_ to give the best.”

Dick didn’t say anything. He let Damian’s words sink in. He didn’t understand it—the perfectionist mentality that Damian and Bruce and Alfred had. For him, anything he received would be satisfying enough—so long as the care was there. He didn’t understand Damian’s need for the ‘best’ to prove himself.

But there were lots of things about Damian that Dick didn’t understand, like his drive to work when sick, or to drink tea that could be poisoned, or to compare all of his shadows.

Dick felt frustrated and uneasy thinking about it. A hand dragged from his shoulder to his upper back—and though Damian made no motion further than that to close the distance, Dick stepped in, burying his face in Damian’s middle, one arm wrapping around him, the other arm hanging at his side with the painting still in hand.

“Your standards are too high,” Dick said, mumbling into Damian’s shirt.

“All the more reason to work harder.”

“You work too hard.”

“I won’t complain.”

 

Dick woke up, feeling groggy. When he managed to open his eyes all the way, he found himself in one of the comfier chairs of the batcave, which meant he must have passed out on the ride home from patrol. He could hear Bruce and Damian talking quietly near the batcomputer. Alfred was standing with them, meaning he had already put away their equipment for the night.

Dick stood up—and heard something flitter toward the ground. At the sound, he caught something white in the corner of his eye, watching as it slip off his lap and onto the steel floor.

Dick nearly stepped on it with his boot but caught himself in time. He bent down to pick it up.

His eyes went big when he saw its contents.

All of his exhaustion snapped out of him. He ran up to the batcomputer, tugging on Damian’s sleeve.

“Did you draw this just now?” Dick said excitedly, the words practically flying out of him.

“Yes,” Damian said, eyes flickering in Dick’s direction for only a moment, still trying to listen to what Bruce was telling him about a case.

“And it’s me?” Dick asked.

“Yes, that’s definitely you,” Damian said, shrugging Dick’s hand off.

Needing to project his excitement onto _someone_ , Dick started tugging on Alfred’s sleeve next.

“Yes, yes, let’s take a look,” Alfred said, smiling with gentle amusement. Dick handed over the drawing.

Alfred gave a sudden snort of laughter, and he suddenly clapped a hand over his mouth as if to stop himself.

“Master Damian, your sense of humor is quite cruel.”

Dick looked at the drawing again, not understanding what Alfred meant. In the drawing, Dick was asleep—his body slumped over, hair disheveled, head tilted back with his mouth slack. Sure, it wasn’t exactly the... _graceful_ image that Dick had envisioned all those times he had dreamed about Damian drawing him, but it was still really, really cool.

“I want to hang it in my room!” Dick said.

“Knock yourself out,” Damian said, and that was good enough for Dick.

“ _Hh_. Aren’t you wearing your uniform in that drawing?” Bruce said, finally turning away from the monitor.

Before Dick could come up with an argument, Damian plucked the drawing away. He looked at it for a moment.

“You’re right,” he said, one of the few times he readily agreed with his father. He held the top of the page between his thumbs and forefingers, looking ready to rip it.

“Wait,” Bruce said, before Dick could muster a scream. Damian glanced at his father cautiously before handing it over. Bruce spun the chair, opening up one of the drawers underneath the desk.

A few seconds later, the drawing was taped to the very edge of the desk. It was placed where it couldn’t get in the way and wouldn’t be seen.

But it was hung up nonetheless.

 

**Author's Note:**

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